


New Rules

by its_nochillforov



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Misunderstandings, bi lance, keith is good at making himself sad, sorta angst i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 00:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12876231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_nochillforov/pseuds/its_nochillforov
Summary: (Sort of based off of New Rules by Dua Lipa?)Some rules Keith set for himself, and did a magnificent job of breaking. Turned out pretty okay, though.((Rated M for language))





	New Rules

**One - Don’t pick up the phone, you know he’s only calling ‘cause he’s drunk and alone -**

 

Keith inspects his knuckles. A red line runs down the second and third knuckles, and he has no idea where it came from, but it looks like it’s healing, so that’s good.

His phone buzzes, on the table. He glances at it, for a second, and then goes back to his checking his skin. It looks a little dry -

Another buzz.  _ Someone’s being insistent _ , he thinks. That’s too bad - Keith’s currently busy with Netflix on in the background, sprawled across the couch, blanket thrown haphazardly across his legs.

(It’s warm.)

Another buzz. Goddamn. Who is it?

Keith makes a grab for the device, and it just barely grazes his fingertips. He paws at it again, this time bracing himself on the carpet with his other hand, and it works.

A contact picture he knows all too well lights up the screen. 

_ Lance _ is written across the top in nice, white letters. Oh look, apparently he finally has time for Keith now, how great is that -

Keith taps on ‘Decline’, perhaps a little aggressively but nothing that can be held against him, and tosses the phone back on the table.

He picks up the remote. He’s already seen this episode of  _ Gossip Girl _ . Not sure why he’s watching it again. Where was he again? Season five, now, he thinks.

His phone demands attention again. One glance tells him it’s Lance again.

He ignores it.

It continues to buzz. That sound is getting obnoxious.

_ Don’t pick up _ -

Lance had just broken up with Nyma, he reminds himself. Or rather, Nyma had dumped him. They’d all  _ told _ him -  _ Keith _ had told him - that she was bad news, he’d been saying it from the start with his passive aggressive comments and maybe they’d been vague but Lance had known exactly what he was saying.

Nyma’s a bitch, Keith had said. Nyma’s going to do something stupid, Keith had said. Nyma’s a bad fucking idea, Keith had said.

_ Nyma, want to get dinner sometime? _ Lance had said. 

It’s his own damn fault. Of course it is. 

Why, in the name of everything good, is Lance bothering  _ him _ now -

The phone stops buzzing. Keith finally lets out a breath, and continues his search for the episode he saw last. Was it -

It’s buzzing again. Rationally, he knows it’s the same buzz as before, but somehow it seems louder now. Just like Lance.

_ Don’t pick up _ -

Lance is just sulking. He’s off on his own, looking for some way to pass the time, and Keith’ll be damned if he lets himself be simple entertainment for the evening. Especially after the hell train he’s dealt with, watching Lance and Nyma’s relationship grow like a bubble until he was  _ so sure _ it would pop but somehow Lance managed to stay blind to the inevitability.  _ Somehow _ .

_ Don’t pick up _ -

He’s probably lying on his bed, Keith knows exactly what shade of blue those covers are, he’s probably got his feet crossed and his Gameboy in one hand while he incessantly dials Keith in the other, desperate for human contact that could mend his poor, broken heart.

_ Don’t pick up _ -

Keith swipes at it, and jabs at ‘Accept’. Curses himself for it a heartbeat later when he puts the phone up to his ear.

“What.” He hisses. Maybe he didn’t mean for it to come out so sharp and hissy, but whatever, Lance is a big boy and he can deal with it.

“He-ey,” Lance’s voice comes back through a couple beats late. “Just wanted to talk.”

Keith keeps his eyes firmly trained on the screen, where Chuck is making yet another questionable decision. “So talk.”

Lance sighs, big and heavy. “Ah,  _ no se embulla _ ,” he drawls. “Don’t get  _ too _ excited about it.”

Excited. Keith wants to hang up immediately. Why should he be excited? If Lance wants to talk, he can talk. He has a tendency to do it, anyway.

“Ay. Okay. Fine. You wanna know?” His words stick together at the ends. It sounds a little -

Keith interrupts whatever he’s about to say. “Are you drunk?”

A rustling noise, which Keith interprets as Lance shaking his head with fervor. “No! Just had a bit. Not drunk.” He laughs a little. “Not  _ yet _ .”

If he’s not drunk, he’s definitely getting there. Not too far off, now.

Keith resists the urge to clench his jaw. If he does it too much, his teeth will hurt. “Did you want something? Or were you just bored?”

“What, I can’t just call up my best friend to talk every so often? Do I gotta have a reason?”

“You haven’t called me in two weeks. I don’t think it works like that anymore.”

Keith can practically hear Lance’s pout through the phone and the ten miles between them. He has a very distinctive pout. “You’re so mean to me,” Lance whines.

Keith does not have a response to that. He’s kind of being an asshole, that’s true. But that can’t be held against him, obviously, because it’s  _ Lance’s _ fault for starting this whole thing, it always has been -

Keith lets out a frustrated breath. “Okay. Yeah.” He pauses, and when Lance doesn’t say anything, he tries again. “Do you want something?”

Lance is silent for another moment. Keith is about to run his mouth again, but Lance responds, rushed like he’s shoving the words out of his mouth. “No, guess not. I think Hunk’s calling me. I’ll talk to you later.”

The call drops. Static taunts Keith.

Well, shit. Now he feels a little guilty.

(He probably deserves it. He broke a rule, didn’t he? He picked up the phone.  _ Dammit, Keith _ .)

  
  


**Two - Don’t let him in, you have to kick him out again -**

 

The kitchen is a mess. There’s little drops of food colouring scattered over the counter, a smattering of flour on the wall behind the stove, and some way somehow he’s managed to get whisked egg in a nice splotch next to the sink. Spoons are scattered in odd places. A nice pile of used dishes are stacked in a precarious pile in the sink.

So that’s, of course, when the doorbell rings.

Keith resists the urge to thread his fingers through his hair in frustration because he’s intelligent enough to know that it’s only going to result in a terrible combination of flour and egg that he’s going to have to wash out later.

He stands in the kitchen, staring over at the door with deplorable conflict in his eyes, and the ring comes again.

_ Fine _ .

He crosses the space in four long strides, and his hand leaves a nice imprint of flour on the door handle. The door creaks open.

“Hey,” Lance says, tan skin blinding and hands clasped behind his back. “You busy?”

Keith’s jaw hinges open slightly, in a smart-looking stare. (Not really.) “What?”

Lance rocks back onto his heels. “Busy? It’s Sunday. Wanna go out somewhere?”

“I - I know what day it is. What do you mean, go out?”

“Watch a movie, get something to eat. Been a while, right?” He has that smile plastered on his face, the one that Keith has seen  _ too _ many times not to recognize. It’s the fake-ass smile Lance uses on strangers.

He’s using it on Keith now. That should make him feel guilty, but instead it just sparks a rift in his chest.

By way of a response, Keith steps back slightly so Lance’s gaze shoots past him and into the disaster that is the kitchen.

Lance’s eyebrows hitch up. He lets out a low whistle. “That’s - impressive.” He looks from the mess to Keith, then the mess again, and finally settles on Keith. “You look like you could use some help.”

Keith could definitely use some help. But -

That would mean Lance, inside Keith’s apartment, in his  _ space _ , and he doesn’t think he can deal with that -

There must be some conflict on Keith’s face, because Lance’s expression shifts to something more guarded. “Something the matter?”

“No,” Keith says quickly.

Lance lifts an eyebrow and waits. When Keith doesn’t respond, he sighs. “Are you avoiding me?”

Keith feels like three red exclamation marks should be appearing over his head, like in those cartoons, blowing big like balloons and then popping dramatically.

“No. Of course not. Why would you think that?”

Lance squints at him. Sort of angles his neck down, because he’s being a bitch and pretending he’s taller than he actually is, and  _ just because he’s got two extra inches over Keith - _

“You sounded pretty upset when I called you the other day.”

“You were drunk.” Keith tries not to recall, because he knows if he does he’s going to get that funny feeling in his chest again, and he really doesn’t want that.

“Just a little.” He holds his thumb and his pointer finger a smidge apart to represent just how drunk he was. “Can’t blame me for that, anyhow. You  _ know _ why.”

There he goes, bringing it up again. Now Keith has no choice but to recall exactly why. Recall Nyma’s blonde fucking hair and that bitch-ass smile of hers. Damn. Now he’s in a bad mood.

Not much of a change. He was in a bad mood before.

Keith just grimaces.

Lance peeks over Keith’s head at the maelstrom again. “Can I come in?”

_ No. No, you can’t, because then you’ll be in my apartment, and _ -

_ I don’t need that right now, I don’t need you to be in my space, I need you to be so far away I can forget you’re here at all - _

“Sure.” Keith steps aside, and Lance beams at him, toeing off his shoes outside the door. “Don’t you have other things to do?”

Lance shakes his head. His hair flops about the crown of his head. “Not really.” He flashes Keith an unexpected smile, wide and unabashed, and Keith almost dies right here on the spot. “Just wanted to spend some time with my best friend, you know?”

Keith snorts. “What, Hunk wasn’t free today, so you came here?”

“How could you insinuate that you were my  _ second _ choice? I should be offended.”

“No,  _ I _ should be offended. We know it’s true.”

Lance doesn’t respond. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed tightly over his chest and one socked foot tapping soundlessly against the tile.

“What?”

“You think that?”

Keith can feel his defenses sliding into place, armor that feels so familiar, like hugging your mother. He lets it envelop him as he tears off a napkin from the roll and starts wiping at the counters.

Lance tries again. “Keith, we’ve been friends for, like, six years. I think I can tell when something’s wrong.” Pause. “Especially when you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Keith grinds out. It’s a little harder to say than he thought it would be. Can Lance tell?

“Yeah, you are.” No malice in his tone, just statement of observation. Damn him for being like that. So… observant. “Did I do something?”

“No. I’m  _ not _ avoiding you. I’ve just been busy.”

“You didn’t sound busy when I called you on Friday.”

Keith drops the towel, and turns around to mimic Lance’s position, and pretends he isn’t being ridiculously defensive. “So sue me. What do you want me to do?”

Lance wilts. “I don’t know! Talk to me? We haven’t talked in weeks. Hunk and Pidge and I went out last weekend and Pidge said they invited you but you said no.  _ What _ is going on with you?”

“Nothing! What, I can’t say no once in a while?”

“That’s not what I’m getting at, and you know it.” He stops, takes a deep breath, and starts again in a calmer voice. “I just - you can be honest with me. You can talk to me. What’s the matter?”

Lance’s earnest gaze is pinning him down. He feels like he can’t move - and there’s a dangerous tight feeling in his throat, making it harder and harder to push words out. He has to pick out his words like cherries, and tug and  _ tug _ to get them into the air.

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m  _ fine _ .” 

_ What’s the matter? The matter is you. Damn you. And your questionable taste in girls - and your fucking whining - and how you never  _ listened _ \- and how you noticed everything but the fucking things I need you to notice -- _

The things he needs him to notice. 

_ Nothing _ . He needs Lance to notice nothing. He doesn’t know where that came from.

Lance clicks his tongue in frustration. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me right now. But just - stop avoiding me. Please.”

Lance holds out a hand expectantly, and Keith looks at it with confusion. What’s he supposed to - oh. He throws the roll of kitchen tissues at Lance’s chest, and he catches it with a yelp and a fumble.

“Thanks,” he drawls, but he rips one off and wets it in the sink to wipe down the stove. “Geez, Keith, what did you  _ do _ ? Were you trying to set up a meth lab in here or something?”

Keith splutters. “No! It just - I was just - ” He can’t  _ say _ it out loud, he realizes. If he says it, it’ll sound even dumber than it already is.

“Mmhm. You were just what?”

Defeated. Keith is defeated. “Macarons.”

Lance pauses. “What?”

“ _ Macarons _ , okay, I was trying to make macarons.”

Lance is silent for a long moment, and Keith is almost tempted into turning around and looking at him, but just before he does, Lance bursts into laughter. 

Loud, belly-laughter that makes Keith’s insides feel like someone’s meticulously lighting every single tract on fire, one by one.

“But  _ why _ ?” Lance asks, when he’s gotten himself under control. Keith has to resist the urge to grab him by the collar and punt him right out the door. “You? Baking?”

“It’s supposed to be, like - calming, or whatever.” Oh, sweet Jesus it sounds so much worse out loud. What the fuck is he trying to accomplish? He doesn’t have to  _ explain _ himself.

Lance’s laugh tapers off into stifled giggles. “This is what’s been keeping you so busy? You’re avoiding me for macarons?”

“I’m not fucking avoiding you - ”

“Yeah, you are.” Lance cuts him off. “It’s okay. Just wish you’d tell me why.”

If Lance keeps this up, Keith is really going to have to kick him right out, because he doesn’t think he can deal with this for much longer. Sooner or later he’s going to split right down the middle and tell Lance everything he really shouldn’t. 

(All those damn things Lance refuses to notice.)

No. No, he won’t, because he’s a self-respecting adult who has a filter mechanism between his brain and his mouth and can control himself. He does  _ not _ have anger issues, and he definitely does  _ not _ have issues with Lance. He can behave like a functional human being.

Lance does him a favor, like he always seems to be doing, and changes the subject. “Have you seen Wonder Woman yet? I think it’s on Redbox now.”

Keith shakes his head, then voices it when he realizes Lance is facing away from him.

“Do you wanna?” His voice is half the volume it was before. Tentative. Hesitant.

Keith hates it.

The idea bounces around inside his head, smashing his resolve to smithereens.

_ Goddammit _ .

“Yeah, sure.”

  
  


**Three - Don’t be his friend, you know you’re gonna wake up in his bed in the morning -**

 

Keith is wasting away on his laptop, bathed in its dim glow with all the other lights shut off like a fucking gremlin at two minutes past midnight, when a notification pops up on his phone.

To conserve battery, he opens the chat window on his laptop instead.

It’s a message from Lance -  _ of fucking course it is _ \- asking if he’s doing anything life-threateningly important at the moment, and if he isn’t, can he please talk.

He pecks out a quick  _ no _ and leaves Lance to interpret it, before switching back to scrolling through Tumblr and watching old vine videos on YouTube.

Lance responds not twenty seconds later. He must really be in a panic.

__ _ no srsly i need ur help  _

__ _ can u pls pls pls come over tmrw _

Tomorrow? Why the hell is Lance messaging him at midnight just to ask if he’ll show his face the next day?

_ i need u to go shopping w me _

__ _ what tf kind of gift do i get for sHIRO  _

Ha. So that’s what this is about.

(Shiro’s birthday is in three days. It seems Lance has pushed this a bit far.)

Keith taps the ‘voice call’ button on the top right. If he can’t ignore Lance forever, he might as well get it over with in one fell swoop, right?

Lance picks up before the first ring has even ended.

“Please. Please please. I’ll owe you forever. Isn’t that what you want? Me, indebted to you for life and beyond?”

Keith sighs loudly, so the mic will pick it up and Lance will hear it through the call. To be petty. “Really? You waited this long?”

Lance whines. “I knowww. I’m horrible, and I’m sorry, but I just - it totally slipped my mind.”

Keith weighs his options. He could say no - like he’s been doing for the past two weeks,  _ (since Nyma dumped Lance) _ , he could just avoid his problems -

But that day Lance had dropped in out of nowhere, Nyma’s name hadn’t come up  _ once _ , they’d watched Wonder Woman swaddled on the couch with Lance’s legs across his lap in the dark like he’d gotten so used  _ before _ , 

It had been so  _ nice _ ,

Before he knows it, his mouth is answering for him. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

Lance cheers quietly. “Yes! Yes. Thank you so much.  _ So _ much.”

Keith hangs up before he says something dumb like  _ anything for you _ .

\--

It’s misting and overcast, but Keith parks Red in front of Lance’s apartment building and takes the stairs four floors up until he reaches the right door. He lifts up a hand to knock before he can chicken out, and he doesn’t even have to follow through - the door swings open wildly before his knuckles touch the chipping paint.

“I’m here!” Lance announces. His shirt is wrinkled, he’s tugging his shoes on, and trying furiously to set his hair in place with the hand that isn’t on the door.

Keith stifles an unexpected laugh with the hand that had hung in the air.

Lance pauses his harried movements to glare. “I woke up late, okay, just shut up and - and drive.”

Keith’s heart almost launches itself out his mouth when they’re seated on his bike and Lance’s arms wind around his ribs in a familiar hold. He subdues his heart rate into a more acceptable range with willpower and willpower alone before taking off, probably much faster than he has to. 

(Lance’s grip tightens, just like Keith absolutely  _ knew _ it would, but damn if that doesn’t make his breathing a little more shaky.)

\--

Keith swipes Lance’s keys from where they’re hooked on his finger, because Lance has his hands full with bags askew and Keith is kind-hearted like that.

He unlocks Lance’s door with a strange familiarity wiggling around between his ribs. It’s almost painful, but not really, because he  _ knows _ it’s just emotional.

(Who allowed emotions, anyway? All they do is… make you uncomfortable. And sometimes they hurt.)

(Mostly uncomfortable.)

Lance heaves a big breath as he empties the bags in his arms onto the couch. He sticks his hands on his hips and stares hard at the pile. “Somehow, I have to make these look - like a gift.”

Slowly, he turns to Keith. Keith can see him cranking up the puppy-dog eyes up, notch by notch, until his lower lip juts into a pout and his eyebrows are sloping up. “Will you help me wrap them?”

“Psh.” Keith crosses his arms tightly over his chest. He can’t resist that look - that’s cheating. “No.”

“Pleaaase?” Lance clasps his hands together.

Keith looks away. “I - I have things to do. It’s Saturday.”  _ Weak _ , he chastises himself,  _ should’ve come up with something better _ .

He doesn’t know why he’s trying to convince himself to stay as far away from Lance as he can - all he knows is he has to. He  _ has _ to.

“No, you really don’t, and I’m you friend, and I’m in need, and will you  _ please _ just stay a bit longer?”

Y - y - he’s about to say it. No, dammit. He can’t just -

“Yeah, okay, fine.”

Lance beams like Keith’s gifted him a puppy. “Great. Now just - ” Carefully, or absolutely carelessly, Lance sweeps all the plastic bags onto the ground. They tumble down, and a few questionable  _ clinks _ happen, but nothing really sounds broken, so he plops himself down beside it.

Keith sets his butt down on the carpet, too. He reaches to empty the first couple of bags. There’s a picture frame, a poster, an empty box -

“What are you even going to  _ do _ with these?” He wonders, turning the box around, trying to discern its use.

Lance wags a finger. “You’ll see.” He reaches across Keith to the scissors on the table, and Keith leans back to give him the space. Lance takes full advantage of it.

Lance still smells the same. Like that dumb cologne that he buys in literally the same exact scent every single fucking time because he has no sense of curiosity ( _ “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, Keith, it works and I’m not going to try something new just to break out in hives.” _ ). And a little bit of city, because they’ve been blown about on that bike, but he supposes that’s his fault.

What the fuck? He’s been in Lance’s apartment for two minutes and now he’s  _ smelling _ him? He’s definitely loopy. He needs to get out of here.

Lance sits back and gives Keith a look. 

Keith busies himself with peeling stickers off the picture frame.

Lance nudges him with a knee. Keith is absolutely hyperaware of every point of contact, the exact warmth of Lance’s skin through his ripped jeans and through Keith’s leggings. It’s terrible. “Something wrong?”

He seems to be asking that a lot lately. Too bad Keith doesn’t have an answer for him. Lance is being exceptionally wonderful - so why does Keith still feel a snapping irritation when he thinks of Nyma? Why does Keith get that centrifugal feeling in his chest when he concentrates on Lance’s knee right next to his? It’s dumb. It’s just plain  _ dumb _ , obviously, and highlights Keith’s failings as a functional human of society.

Keith must take too long to respond, because Lance snags the TV remote from under the couch and turns the TV on with a click. He sets it to some episode of  _ Voltron _ , that old cartoon that was hot shit when they were in college and now just reminds him of stale chips and being tangled up with five other friends in a cramped apartment room, safe in the knowledge that they all definitely had work to do but were dutifully procrastinating it.

(Those were the days.)

Soon enough, Keith’s watch beeps six o’clock at him on the hour, and he startles out of the rerun that’s playing, almost snipping his own finger with the scissors and just barely missing.

Lance laughs. Keith feels his neck grow warm, and snaps at him to shut it, but they both know it has no bite.

“Wanna order in?” Lance asks. He sounds casual, and his gaze is fixed on the TV ahead, but his purses his lips and the question snaps up at the end all hesitant-like, and -

He’s nervous. That’s what it is.

Keith absolutely despises that Lance is nervous around him. Around  _ him _ . What has he  _ done _ ?

“Sure.” 

Lance cracks a smile. “Thai or pizza?”

“I’m feelin’ pizza. But none of that pineapple bullshit,” he adds quickly, before Lance can get any ideas.

Lance just clicks his tongue. “Man, have you even tried it? I bet you haven’t.”

“I don’t have to. Pineapple-on-pizza is an abomination and it’s going to remain  _ away _ from my tastebuds.”

Lance shakes his head, and holds up his hands in an  _ I surrender _ gesture. “Mmkay. For now.”

The pizza comes. It doesn’t have pineapple.

They inhale the pizza in about 1.383 seconds total, because they’re hungry boys and haven’t eaten since lunch. They absolutely get pizza grease on some key parts of Shiro’s gift, but he doesn’t ever have to know that.

At eight, Keith peeks out the window, and it’s dark. He grimaces. He hates driving in the dark. The wind is nice, but there’s always some asshole who doesn’t realize there’s a bike around even though he’s always got the headlights on, and gets  _ this _ close to running him over, and Keith just isn’t up to that right now.

Can’t be helped, though.

Keith gets to his feet and dusts his legs off subconsciously. “I’m gonna, uh, head out,” he says awkwardly, and jabs his thumb towards the door like it’d help his case.

Lance blinks up at him. He looks awfully adorable like that, cross-legged and three different colours of marker gripped in each hand, hair definitely messier than he thinks it is.

_ Get a fucking grip, Keith _ .  _ The hell do you mean? _

“Or you could - ” He pauses. Keith’s mind absolutely goes blank. “Just stay over.”

Keith opens his mouth, and then closes it. “What?” Great. Intelligent answer. A++.

Lance clears his throat. “It’s dark out, and I know you don’t like driving in the dark. You could stay over. I can take the couch.”

“You’re  _ not _ sleeping on your own couch.”

“Well, if you really wanted to sleep in my bed with me,” Lance retorts, and then seems to immediately regret everything, because his face reddens faster than if he’d been burned.

“Um,” Keith continues to say smart things, “you sure?”

Lance snaps his head up. “Am I sure? Yes, I’m sure.” Does he sound hoarse? Maybe he needs a drink of water. He clears his throat again.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Keith nods, decisively. Shifts his weight.

Sits down again.

“Okay.”

\--

When he wakes up to the smell of that stupid cologne again, Keith almost fucking loses it. 

He  _ knew _ exactly what he shouldn’t have done, and he went and did it, and  _ literally _ he made his bed and has to lie in it, except Lance was the one that made the actual bed and that’s exactly the problem.

There’s a faint warmth pressed against the length of his entire left leg, and the same thing trailing up his arm, and intermittent hot breath just barely grazing his neck. And he knows what it is. And he wants to roll right out of that bed, and maybe parkour out the window, except he can’t do that.

Slowly, like any sudden movements are going to result in a third World War, Keith turns his head forty-five degrees to chance a look at Lance.

Soft, peaceful, sleeping Lance, mouth open and drooling just the slightest on the pillow, and barely-audible snores. Keith would take a picture and maybe laugh about it, but he’s too busy flipping the fuck out.

He  _ knew _ he shouldn’t have stayed. He shouldn’t even have come in the first place, forget Lance’s frantic pleading for help with Shiro’s gift, he  _ knew _ it was a bad idea from the very start.

Somehow, the knowledge that he was altogether right does not give him any satisfaction. It serves to make him feel a little worse about himself.

Keith’s gaze wanders a little, while he contemplates sliding right out of Lance’s personal space as opposed to throwing everything to the wind and closing his eyes again. His attention lands on the collection of trinkets and things thrown haphazardly on the bedside table, topped off with Keith’s phone, probably ten percent of battery life away from dying.

There’s a crumpled piece of paper trapped under the phone, which if Keith strains hard enough he can make out a list on, so it’s probably a grocery list. A set of keys, but why they’re in the bedroom, Keith doesn’t know.

Lance’s phone is there, too. It’s charging, but Keith’s not sure when Lance plugged it in.

As if Keith’s gaze summons something, it lights up under his watch. A familiar name flashes across the top of the screen, a more familiar face accompanying it. 

Keith’s heart absolutely drops right down to his stomach, bottoming out somewhere and blooming into a terrible feeling. 

The phone buzzes, and Nyma’s name stays right there, taunting, as if to say,  _ I told you so _ .

Keith  _ knew _ staying over was an absolutely terrible idea, but he did it anyway, and this must be his punishment.

Keith glances over at Lance again, to see if he’s noticed that his phone is silently buzzing away, but Lance looks as asleep as ever, evidently unaware of Keith’s subsequent panic as well.

Suddenly, he doesn’t care so much for the warmth of the bed, anymore.

He extricates himself from the sheets, tries not to wake Lance with his popping joints. Tells himself to get it  _ the fuck _ together, as the call on Lance’s phone goes to voicemail and the notification appears on his lock screen, that he’s just missed a call.

Lance’s lock screen photo is of that one time the entire squad managed to find time to screw around at Six Flags. Keith knows that picture all too well, and in all honesty it looks like it could be a Renaissance painting, with all the hectic action captured in one shot.

Keith plucks his own phone up from the nightstand and slips it in his pocket. Lance seems to not have noticed a thing, and now convinced that Lance absolutely isn’t going to magically wake up as a consequence of Keith’s introspection, he rubs the sleep from his eyes and threads his fingers through his hair, pushing it back.

He slips right out of the room. The hall is dark, Shiro’s completed gift is sprawled across Lance’s couch, and Keith’s shoes sit neatly by the door where he left them… yesterday.

He toes them on, and unlocks the door. Snags his jacket and keys from their spot on the coffee table. Maybe he should tell Lance he’s leaving? Is it a bit rude to just up and leave, especially when Lance had been so kind as to let him stay the night like that?

Lance will know. And if he ends up texting Keith to ask where he’s run off to, Keith can always just tell him then. It’s fine.

Keith closes the door behind him, chilly morning six a.m. air nipping at his exposed skin. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself.

Well, he can’t go feeling sorry for himself now, can he? He knew it was going to happen. Can’t blame Lance, either - his own fault. Entirely.

  
  


**And if you’re under him, you ain’t getting over him --**

 

He has to move on at some point. Keith has a nice paper cup dangling from his fingers, legs propped up on the armrest of his sofa. 

He has to move on at some point, he tells himself fiercely, eyes trained on the bumps on the ceiling.

_ Shh _ , he reprimands himself.  _ If you think too loud, he might show up _ .

He doesn’t know exactly when it started. He knows the feeling that it plucks out of his chest, like hooking a layer and  _ pulling _ , he knows the little pinpricks of stinging pain that let themselves be known when he hears Lance’s voice, he knows --

He  _ knows _ .

He just doesn’t know  _ when _ .

Loud knock on the door. Keith jumps, and a little bit of his drink spills out onto the carpet.

(It’s not water, is it?)

“What?” He calls, hoping whoever’s on the other side will hear him. If they don’t need him, he doesn’t want to get up. 

“Open up,” comes the response, hurried and muffled.

Keith nearly topples off the sofa.

It seems he’s summoned Lance purely by thought. Dammit.

With a heaving sigh, Keith picks himself up and trudges to the door. “What do you want?”

“Just  _ open up _ ,” Lance urges from the other side. “It’s important.”

Keith flings the door open, entirely prepared to be faced with a frantic, disheveled-looking Lance, but absolutely not ready for…

Date-Lance?

He’s wearing nice, dark-wash jeans and a black tank top under the precious dark blue button-up that Keith has seen all of four times in his life. His hair might have been styled at one point, but now his fingers are permanently attached to his scalp, and it sticks up in odd places.

Keith knows his jaw has probably unhinged itself.

He forcibly shuts his jaw.

“What… do you want?” Perhaps it comes out a little more abrasive than he means. Oops. 

“I’m not allowed to come see my best friend?”

“You say this every time. And I keep telling you, it doesn’t work like that.”

Lance snorts, and pushes lightly past Keith’s shoulder. He toes off his shoes first, just like he does every time, which Keith never understood until he went to Lance’s house for the first time and had three different voices shouting at him to take off his shoes at the door immediately.

He shudders slightly at the memory. That won’t ever cease to be terrifying.

Lance flits around his living room for a moment while Keith leans back against the door, and crosses his arms over his chest, slightly uncomfortable. He feels like he shouldn’t even be in the same room as Lance, much less have him  _ in his apartment _ . There’s something wrong with the image here. He considers flinging the door back open and marching out before Lance notices, but that’s… slightly immature. (Slightly.)

Lance seems to be satisfied with whatever he’s done, and turns to face Keith, hands stuffed in his pockets. Keith’s only consolation is that Lance looks as out of place as he feels, among Keith’s bare walls and unkempt blankets.

“So,” Lance begins, loudly.

Keith’s throat feels dry. “So?”

“So I gotta ask.” Lance looks down at his feet, and wiggles his toes into the carpet. “What’s up?”

“What?”

“Oh, stop that. Enough. I don’t know what I did, okay? But every time I try to talk to you, or spend time with you, you do the - ” Lance waves a hand at him, as vague as it can get, “the thing. Where you just sort of - ” he waves his hand again, like it’s helping, “run away. What did I do?”

“You didn’t,” Keith clears his throat, “You didn’t do anything.”

“So what’s wrong? Something’s wrong, I know it.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Keith tries again, blatantly lying to Lance’s face, but it’s not like he can say anything else. Not like he can say  _ Sorry, I just really hated your girlfriend _ , because Lance will say  _ I’m sorry _ and  _ she’s not my girlfriend anymore, though, _ to which Keith will have no choice but to confess  _ yeah but the problem is I was jealous and even if you’re not together anymore I’m still jealous _ .

(It had taken him some time to come to terms with that.)

(Doesn’t make him feel any better now that he’s admitted it to himself, albeit with a tinge of shame.)

Lance sighs. “This isn’t even why I came here,” he mutters lowly, and to Keith, holds out a hand, palm-up.

Keith squints at it. “What do I do with that?”

He just wiggles his fingers.

Tentatively, Keith moves closer. When Lance doesn’t present any negative reaction, he carefully takes Lance’s hand, and brings it closer to his face to examine it. Perhaps something is wrong with it?

Lance shakes his head. “Other hand.”

“Other?” Keith furrows his brows, and holds Lance’s right hand with his left, in the most awkward handshake he’s ever given.

Lance flips his wrist around and before Keith can register the movement, slots his fingers between Keith’s, and brings their joined hands up to eye level.

Lance’s hand is cold from the air outside, fingers deliberate like they always are, and Keith suddenly hopes his hands aren’t clammy from the nerves that are starting to fire off.

_ Stop _ , he chides himself, when he feels a flicker of something strange - is that hope? - in his chest.

Lance sighs again, quieter, and Keith is close enough to count the smattering of freckles on his cheekbones. 

Keith rips his gaze away from Lance’s face and focuses it somewhere over his shoulder.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t like,” Lance says, almost a request, before -

Before the scent of his cologne is impossibly close, before his eyelids flutter shut and his freckles become unfocused in Keith’s vision, before there’s a soft pressure on Keith’s lips and his heart has  _ stopped _ .

A numb cold spikes through Keith’s veins at the contact. He isn’t sure what’s happening -  _ he knows exactly what’s happening _ \- 

Lance doesn’t seem deterred by Keith’s lack of response, and pushes one more time, eyelids screwing a little tighter. His fingers clench around Keith’s, and his other hand comes to hover around Keith’s waist, gripping the hem of his shirt like he’s too afraid to touch anything else.

Keith’s heart stutters back alive, whipped into overdrive, and the rush of it in his ears is the only thing he can hear. 

He isn’t sure if he’s dreaming. It seems more likely than the alternative.

Fuck it. Dream or not -

Keith presses right back against Lance’s mouth, and brings his free hand to curl around the back of Lance’s neck, holding him in place. He surges onto his toes because despite his indignation there’s an inch or two of difference there, and tilts his head a little more to accommodate the swoop of Lance’s nose.

Lance lets out a huff of breath, lips curling up just the slightest.

He pulls his hand free from where it was glued to Keith’s, and slides his hands in tandem down Keith’s back and his sides, coming to rest easily on his hips, moulding to his bones like they were made for it. Keith lets his other arm twine around Lance’s back, pulling him closer. 

If Keith only gets this one thing, he’s going to take it.

Forget Nyma, forget whatever drove Lance to his apartment at this time of day, forget the incessant emotions grappling for attention in Keith’s chest. 

Vaguely, he realizes he’s being used as a rebound. Somewhere in the depths of his skull, a singular intelligent brain cell tries to warn him that he’s solely the nearest willing pair of lips, the nearest thing with two legs and a pulse, the warm body that Lance needs consolation from and  _ that’s it _ .

But if Keith thinks he’s going to be able to turn Lance away --

Lance pulls back for air, eyes almost glowing in the light from Keith’s kitchen and lips teased pink and a flush dusting his cheekbones and hair sticking up from where Keith didn’t even realize he’d run his hands --

Lance smiles, and it turns into a breathy laugh that hits  _ right _ where it hurts --

Keith never stood a chance.

He pulls him back down, and Lance is more than happy to comply. 

_ Of course he is _ , that singular intelligent brain cell responds, frantically sounding alarms in his head,  _ you’re giving him just what he wants. This is exactly what he wants. This is not what you want _ .

Keith slaps it away. This is exactly what he wants. If he can’t have long-term, he’ll goddamn take short-term, and nobody has to know but him.

Lance uses his leverage on Keith’s hips to push, turning him around and gently guiding him backwards. Keith goes, feet stumbling slightly.

His shoulder brushes the door frame on their way past it, and his heart immediately abandons post and leaps into his throat. Lance has his tongue far enough down it that Keith has a terrible thought at once, that maybe Lance can feel it, but then he realizes that’s a dumb thought and pushes it away.

Backwards, backwards, even further, until firm wood is hitting the backs of Keith’s legs, and he clutches Lance’s shirt a smidge tighter.

He can’t believe what’s happening. It’s like that moment in Doctor Strange when the lady sort of punches him and his entire soul leaves his body and then comes back. Except for a longer period of time. Keith feels like he’s watching himself stick his own tongue down Lance’s throat, intensely ignoring every rational thought in favor of satisfying his touch-starved body.

Lance guides him down, clambering onto the mattress with his knees clamped around Keith’s hips. He pulls back just enough for Keith to refocus his eyes on Lance’s face, in the dim light filtering through from the living room.

Lance’s mouth splits into a wide grin. “Yeah?” He asks. Keith does not know what he’s asking, but he really can’t help himself at this point, and so he finds himself smiling back, giddy with adrenaline and the scent of Lance’s cologne all over him.

“Yeah,” he responds, half air because he still hasn’t caught his breath properly. He still doesn’t know what he’s just agreed to, but he doesn’t really care.

Lance drops his head back down and nudges his cold nose against Keith’s neck.  _ Don’t get attached to this _ .

Lance tentatively lets his hands roam, slow and stilted movement, fingertips just brushing above Keith’s waistline. He looks up at Keith, taps the hem of his shirt with a question in the gesture. Keith nods before he can think about it, and Lance’s hand continues its venture, roaming up Keith’s skin. The contact leaves trails of coals on his skin, burning, crackling.  _ Don’t get attached to this _ .

Lance smiles against the soft skin at his collarbone, and breathes out and settles himself, his weight shifting on Keith. His hands come to rest, and the only movement is the erratic thudding of his heart, straining against his chest like it wants to jump out and reside within Lance’s.  _ Don’t get attached to this. _

Lance adjusts, and then seems to think better of it and rolls off Keith in one sweep, settling beside him, up on his elbows. It leaves Keith’s skin frozen where Lance had been touching it, and suddenly resting his head on the pillow isn’t enough, so he rolls over too, and hikes himself up onto his elbows.

_ Don’t get attached to this _ .

Too fucking late, he thinks.

“That’s not actually why I came here,” Lance confesses, a bashful smile and a sly smirk warring for dominance on his lips. (The lips Keith just kissed. They’re looking pinker than they did before.) “I was just dropping by to see how you were, since I was in the area. I didn’t mean to --” he cuts off. “You know.” He drops his gaze in lieu of a pleased flush.

Keith swallows a few times before he grants himself permission to speak. “Oh. Hm.” He adds, intelligently, to the conversation.

Lance lets out a breath of a laugh. “Glad I did, though. I didn’t know --” he cuts off again. Tries another time. “I was afraid that -- you know. You wouldn’t feel the same.”

Feel… what?

“I wouldn’t feel the same?”

“Oh, God, this is embarrassing. Just forget I said anything, okay? This was perfectly fine before I opened my mouth.”

“No, I want to know.” Keith has to know what he means. He can’t -- is it too much to think -- “Please. What did you mean?”

Puff of breath. “Just. I’ve liked you for a while, you know? Since - oh, I don’t know. A few months. I couldn’t even tell you how long. Nyma even said half the reason she broke up with me was that she could tell I liked you.”

Lance tells him, sure, but it’s like Keith only half-hears the words. After  _ I’ve liked you for a while _ , Keith’s brain pulls the panic alarm, and the lockdown drill starts flashing. He can feel his eyes glazing with the effort to stay focused while he tries to parse the words that his ears are collecting.

He blinks rapidly to refocus on Lance’s slightly anxious expression. “Was that too much? I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” Keith blurts, the first coherent syllable available. “Sorry. Sorry, just. You. You’re kidding?”

If he’s kidding, that’s a terrible joke to make. Keith is ready to be bitter about it, but -

“No? I’m not kidding?” Lance’s voice slopes up at the end with confusion. “Do you want me to be kidding?”

Of  _ course _ he doesn’t want Lance to be kidding. What kind of a question is that?

“I mean, everyone in the group figured it out, like, weeks ago. It was actually kind of embarrassing. And if even  _ Nyma _ could figure it out - God, that was horrifying. She had to  _ tell _ me before I figured it out for myself. And after all that - I was  _ sure _ that you could tell, too.” Lance shuts his mouth abruptly, as if a thought has just occurred. “You couldn’t tell?”

Without permission, Keith’s lips twist into a half-smile. “No?”

At the sound of his own voice, Keith is reminded that he is, in fact, a part of this situation. He is, indeed, affected. Involved.

Lance  _ likes _ him.

Lance likes  _ him _ .

_Lance_ _likes him_.

Keith marvels at how it sounds in his head, the thought just brushing at his consciousness, not daring to dive in just yet. It makes ripples across his mind, disrupting his thoughts as soon as Lance smiles. The scarce light filtering into the room falls across Lance’s face and illuminates him  _ just _ so.

“Well, after sucking your face off, I was sure it was pretty obvious,” Lance raises an eyebrow. “No? Wasn’t enough?”

Is this - that’s definitely - “Are you  _ flirting _ with me?” Keith asks, incredulous. For a moment, every other flailing thought in his head is put on hold.

Lance snorts. “Have been for the past  _ month _ , thanks for noticing.”

Keith scrambles into a sitting position. “What do you  _ mean _ by that. You can’t just  _ say _ that.”

Lance mirrors his position, amused smile playing at his features. “Told you, didn’t I? I like you. You like me. I think this works out.”

Keith splutters. “No. No, you can’t. You said a few weeks. You even said  _ Nyma _ .”

Lance nods, thoughtfully. “I did, didn’t I? Yeah, I was a little sad about that. For a while. Mostly, upset that she figured out my love life before I did. How embarrassing is it to have your  _ girlfriend _ tell you you like someone else? That’s weird, man.”

Denial. Yep, that’s denial Keith is experiencing. “Rebound. I’m the rebound,” he tries to establish. 

Lance looks affronted. “What?”

“I’m the rebound. You kissed me because - because I’m the rebound. From Nyma.” It seems he can’t form more than short sentences. Forgive him, his brain is short-circuiting.

“No!  _ Where _ did you get that idea? That’s awful. I would never do that. Please tell me you know I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re - you’re like my best friend.”

“Hunk’s your best friend.”

“So are you,” Lance says, exasperated. “Why can’t you believe that I like you?”

Keith frowns. “I don’t - ”

He’s cut off by Lance’s fingers on his chin, gently guiding his chin up, looking Lance straight in the eye. Determined, earnest blue eyes. 

Before he knows it, Keith’s kissing him again. He isn’t sure if he starts it this time. (He’s pretty sure it was him.)

Lance doesn’t hesitate even a second before reciprocating, pushing right back against Keith’s lips. It’s a wonderful pressure, and Keith balances himself on his knees on soft bedding by gripping Lance’s shoulders, pushing himself closer, closer, closer.

Lance - is okay with this. More than okay with this, it seems, as he slides his hands along Keith’s back like they were fitted to the grooves of his spine, a welcome warmth.

Lance pulls back for a scant second, and grins. “So I think you like me, too,” he starts to say, but Keith pulls him downward with the grip he has on his shoulders. Lance resists, just a little, playfully.

“How could I  _ not _ ,” Keith says, out loud though he thinks he didn’t mean to say that to open air where Lance can hear it.

It’s worth it, for the smile he gets in return, and the kiss Lance engulfs him with.

  
  


**I’ve got new rules, I count ‘em…**

 

“Rules, huh?” Lance giggles, sipping at his frap. It’s eleven thirty at night, and Lance has produced a mocha frappuccino out of his fridge like he’s supposed to have a stashed supply. He’d offered one to Keith, but Keith waved it away. He doesn’t put those sugar monstrosities in his bloodstream (at least, not since Shiro once let him experience a truly terrible sugar rush as a result of a combination of Starbucks horrors).

“Rules,” Keith affirms, drinking his own black coffee sagely. Lance calls his coffee ‘demon juice’, but he also calls Gatorade that, so Keith has since given up on trying to decipher it.

“Tell me.”

“Well, first, you can never watch Stranger Things past midnight,” Keith says, extending one finger, “because it’s weird, and you’ll wake up the next morning feeling like you’re living an alternate reality, don’t ask why, because I don’t  _ make  _ the rules.”

Lance snorts.

“Two,” he counts another finger, “absolutely never have Dunkin coffee past noon. It’s terrible. It’s like it just  _ changes _ after noon. I don’t know why, either. I’ve tested this one. So many times. Doesn’t end up well.”

“Mm. Of course. Just magic. That’s it.”

“Right. Three, don’t ever get Allura books as gifts because I’m pretty sure she already owns all of them, and that’s just embarrassing. She likes shiny things, though. Necklaces, earrings. Pretty things.”

“Good to know.”

“Four.” Keith holds out the four fingers, then clasps them in his other hand, thinking.

“Four?” Lance prompts.

Keith furrows his brows. “I forgot. I don’t know what four is.”

Lance laughs. “I hope you know that over the past two weeks I have asked you three times about your rules, and every single time, you’ve given me different answers.”

Keith hides himself very effectively behind his coffee mug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you even have a list of these rules? Or do you just make them up every time?”

“How could you accuse me of that? That’s terrible. Betrayed by my own boyfriend.”

Lance doesn’t respond.

Keith brings the mug down. “What?”

A smile. Soft, lingering. “I just really like the sound of that.”

Keith feels the effects of that smile tugging at his chest. “Boyfriend?”

“Mm.” Swiftly, Lance puts his coffee on the ground by the side of the couch, and plucks Keith’s mug from him as well. He pushes forward, arms on either side of Keith on the armrest of the couch, and lines his nose up with Keith’s, making him go cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact.

Keith feels a grin spreading across his face.

“Wanna tell me those rules again?” Lance prompts, voice dropping half an octave, smooth. A hint of laughter in it.

Keith clicks his tongue. “No rules.”

(It’s one thirty by the time they go to bed, but only because Lance insists on trying to watch Stranger Things, because he’s a masochist and likes to see Keith suffer.)

(They get through ten minutes before Keith is knocked out, sprawled across Lance’s chest, and Lance immediately succumbs.)

(It’s a good night.)

**Author's Note:**

> heeeeey this took me 165294 years to post but finally it's done. i'd like to thank my procrastination abilities and google docs.
> 
> find me at [my tumblr](its-nochillforov.tumblr.com) if ya feel like chatting! really love these boys.
> 
> ((also this is entirely unbeta'd, i didn't even edit it myself i'm just dumping it here, please lmk if there's something i gotta fix! thanks!))


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